Another Monday

Here it is, the start of a new week. After all these years of retirement there is still a certain satisfaction I get out of rolling over in bed on Monday mornings and giving the world the finger.

The end of July is fast approaching and there is coming another major change in our lives. Ian is leaving home on August 3rd and we will be 'empty nesters'. The up side is...I get my garage back, almost.

Right now we are having our en suite bathroom renovated. The 'Banana' has Ian's furniture stacked on top and all the stuff for the new bathroom underneath. My garage has been taken over by drywall, ceramic tile, sinks and other sundry building supplies. Not to mention all the boxes that Eileen and Ian have packed and the furniture they have salted away.

I had hoped to get the Banana to the paint shop by early September. I will be lucky if I can see it before then. I can count on Ian moving but our contractor is another story. The bathroom was supposed to be finished by August 5th but in light of recent goofs, we will be lucky if they are finished by Sept. 5th.

Last weekend we had Sienna's baptism and a small party of approx. 45 people back to the house. It was a lovely affair with enough food to feed 100. Believe it or not, there was beer left over. I sometimes think Linda has a bit of a masochistic streak in her. We are not as adept as we used to be in cleaning up after a party. Time was it would have to be done right away. Now that we don't have to work Monday morning, it seems to get stretched out over a few days.

Our next race event is the weekend after Labour Day at Watkin's Glen NY. SVRA has become a big part of our lives and we are looking forward to a week away, good friends, good racing, reasonable food and a stay at rustic Seneca Lodge. Did I say 'rustic', that is a polite way of saying 'not up to our usual standards' but it is tradition. Up until 1994 they still had mattresses filled with straw, at least that is what we have been told. Even today, no fridge, no microwave, 6 channels on the TV, an old Bell 500 rotary phone (at least they have phones), and no breakfast before 8:00am. Which really sucks considering we are on our way to the track by 6:30am.

On Friday afternoon they do a race re-creation using the old 6 mile circuit that runs through the Town of Watkin's Glen. Last years was delayed by 2 hours when the lead car into corner one had his passenger (wife) fall out and proceeded to run over her with the rear wheel. My sometimes black and morbid sense of humour cannot fail to see the humour in this. Linda says I am sick. I think she may be right.

That is it for probably the rest of the week unless something unforetold or dramatic happens to our bathroom, like the tub ends up in the dining room.

Janna's Banana

I have this perchant for collecting cars. Not like a lot of people that have vast collections, but sufficient to keep our driveway and garage full. Now, that doesn't take too many when we only have a two car garage and a two car driveway. Of course, Linda has her vehicle, Ian his 318is and ocassionally Sarah's will also appear. Throw in my 325is and M3 and you can imagine we have rather a full house.

I had sometimes made vague mumblings about building another car, probably another MGB. For the most part it was just that, mumblings, there just wasn't room. Linda suggested that if I wanted to build another car, all I had to do was get rid of the M3...there it was....gone!

The search for a decent restoration project was underway. I was looking for an MGB GT of fairly early vintage, chrome bumper model to be exact. One day, scouring the pages of E-bay, this little yellow roadster caught my eye. I have no idea why, it was totally NOT what I was looking for... a rubber bumper (gawd they are ugly) roadster. The description was fairly vague compared to some and there was not an extensive array of pictures, certainly not enough to make an informed descision on buying. Still, something kept dragging me back to the little (ugly) roadster. A voice compelled me to bid on this car, and bid I did. Not that it was much of a bid, and honestly, I never expected to win. Four days later while perusing my e-mails, imagine my surprise to find I was now the proud owner of a '75' MGB roadster. I contacted the seller and forwarded a $500.00 deposit. Now comes the fun part...getting a inoperative vehicle from Tifton Georgia to Whitby Ontario. I called various transport companies only to find it was going to cost me twice what I had paid for the car to get it delivered to Buffalo. Tilden, U-Haul etal would not rent me a trailer to take south of the border, so I was stuck. A friend suggested I put out a plea on the internet and see what happens. Two days later I had a response from an old racing buddy that I hadn't seen for the last thirty or so years. A deal was struck and Brian Burgess was off to retrieve the new found treasure.

I started swapping e-mails with the seller, a young lady who was given the car for her sixteenth birthday in 1986. The car had been repainted just prior to her recieving it. The car was yellow, her name was Janna, and the car was always referred to as "Janna's Banana", and so the name sticks. It had been in storage in an old barn on a peanut farm in Tifton, approx. one and a half hours south of Atlanta since 1990.

The Banana arrived hours before our departure for six weeks in Florida. When I finally laid eyes on the car I was even more surprised than when I won the bid. It was complete, and in the short time I had to survey it, looked to be in pretty good shape. I was truly impressed and had second thoughts about heading off to Florida. We rolled the car off the trailer, with amazing ease, and into the garage. Thats it....six weeks before I could start prying away at this little gem. One thing I did find extraordinary was there was a trunk full of broken wing mirrors. Perchance did this young lady have a habit of shearing off mirrors (5 to be exact).....To be continued.

Beyond Gold and into Platinum

Now, very briefly, Linda and I have joined a racing organization in the USA, SVRA, Sportscar Vintage Racing Assoc. ( http://www.svra.com/ ) We spend probably four or more months of the year in the USA at vintage races. We both work these events, Linda in registration and myself in Tech, with the odd opportunity to drive the Pace Car. We have met wonderful people through this endeavour and have formed what we hope will be some long lasting friendships south of the border.

Janna's Banana, shown on the left, is my project MGB. We haven't yet decided whether this will be our street toy or vintage racer.


My last project was a vintage Mini which I sold in 2003 and is now being successfully raced in the US. The original purchaser was Rick Little out of Long Island New York, but it is now owned by David Dartt out of Florida. We had the opportunity to see it race at Sebring this spring.


We have had several trips this year. We were in Florida for the month of March for two races at Sebring International Raceway. A week in Savannah, Georgia for a race at Roebling Road and an event at Mid-Ohio Sports Car Course in Lexington, Ohio.

That brings us pretty much up to date so from here on entries will be as required.

The Silver Days of Life.

I would have titled this 'The Golden Days', but that would not leave ample description of things still to come.

I guess my Mini was the root of all things good in my future. Sounds strange, but the kind or type of car one drives will dictate, or at least used to dictate, a lifestyle. The Mini did not bring about too much change until I had engine problems and I was directed to Reputation Tuning in Scarborough. I had found a home away from home. Aside from spending untold amounts of money on the Mini, it became the sports car social hub of the east end. Life long friendships were formed at Reptune. There was a hardcore group of seven Mini owners, and one MGB owner that became inseparable for many years. We all joined the same car club, BARC-OC, worked races, did Solo Events and the occasional rally. Every outing formed up at Reptune and a lot of times ended up there as well. It wasn't often that we didn't end up bending or blowing up one of the eight cars on a days outing. It was a constant battle to keep the cars in proper tune. If the average wage amongst us was $100.00/wk, we were spending $125.00 a week to go faster and look better. One of the group, Dave Crowther still has his original 1964 1071cc Mini Cooper 'S'.

The Mini days hold some of my fondest memories but like most good things, must come to an end. I used the car for drivers school but soon learned that a lot of the modifications I had made under the old Improved Production car rules made it ineligible under the new SCCA rules which CASC adopted. I bought a used MGB and started about building a legal race car. I had a lot of success with the 'B', winning most of my novice races in 1968 and the E/P Championship in 1970. Other cars in my race lineup included a Datsun 240Z and a FF1600, which was very short lived.

Single life soon gave way to marriage and racing was put aside.

I met my wife Linda through a mutual friend at BARC in late 1968. Linda was a corner worker with CRCA, but put it aside in '69' to follow my racing. After racing, Linda and I stayed involved. Linda became the Ontario Region Numbers Registrar and I did some driving instructing at Mosport, was Ontario Region Chief Scrutineer for a few years and a CASC Steward.

In 1977 our son Ian was born. Earning a steady living and looking to the future became paramount and most forms of motorsport were put on the back burner. Our daughter Sarah was born in 1982.

I could write a book on our wonderful kids...but that is another story. Suffice to say we went through the usual soccer, karate, skating etc. Through all the ups and downs of raising children, we have always been very proud of their accomplishments. Sarah is now the mother of our precious granddaughter, Sienna Lynn. Sarah and her significant other, Jason are now embarking down the road of parenthood, and doing quite well. Ian is just preparing to start his life away from the nest with a wonderful young lady from Ireland, Eileen ( http://www.eileendaegu.blogspot.com/). Ian and Eileen met while they were teaching in South Korea. Each of our children are unique and their accomplishments have far exceeded anything Linda or I accomplished as young adults. Having these two children in our lives have provided us with our 'Golden Years'.

So, in a nutshell, here we are. The kids are grown, my sister and her significant other, John, have very successful lives and Linda and I are retired. Both my parents are gone, Mom in '86' and Dad in '96'. Now Linda and I are just getting our second wind and ready to start another phase of our lives.

As I wrote all this, a million memories came flooding back, far too many to include here. So for all those people who passed through our lives without an honourable mention here, please forgive me. You are not forgotten.

So, Where Did I Leave Off?

Our brush with The Great White North had come to an end by December of 1958 and it was back to civilization.

Enrolling in a Toronto area high school was to be my great undoing. Up until this time I had been an above average student with yearly averages in the mid to high 80's and had goals and direction. This was to come to a screaming halt. Remember back when I first went to high school? I had a choice of options. I had picked drafting as it seemed to be most applicable to my end goal of becoming a commercial or graphic artist. Certainly far more advantageous than delving into some foreign language.....WRONG! French was to be my undoing. Returning to the Toronto area school system without french put me in an untenable position. French was mandatory and without it my options were limited. I could choose to go back to grade nine and start all over if I wanted to go on to higher education, or, I could choose a four year vocational or commercial course. None of the options were particularly attractive but a decision had to be made. At 15, my parents goal was to get me through school in the shortest possible time and have me join the workforce. The prospect of seeing a child in school until his early twenties did not sit well with parents that had seen their education end by age fourteen. The decision was made for me and I ended up in a four year vocational drafting course. Being enrolled in a vocational course immediately set your social status just a tad higher than pond scum. For the most part, Tech kids were considered the misfits, ne'r do wells and miscreants of the educational system, and for about 10% of the kids, that was true. My level of interest diminished rather dramatically and although I completed my high school education, it was with anything but stellar marks.

Returning to Scarborough brought about a cultural shock unlike anything I had experienced before. To start with, the great outdoors was replaced by concrete, asphalt and shopping malls.
Our residence became a two bedroom apartment in a seedy district of Scarborough known as The Golden Mile. In very short order I came to resent this final move and all its implications. Life at home became insufferable and I was in constant conflict with my parents. My only refuge was with a few close friends that harboured the same great love of automobiles as myself. I lived for my 16 birthday, which meant a drivers license and freedom.

My teens where not a particulary noteable time in my life although there were some high points. Most significant were the trips to Harewood Acres near Jarvis Ontario for the sports car races, the day I turned 18 and was able to join CRCA (Canadian Race Communications Assoc.) and the purchase in early 1961 of a 1959 Austin Mini. I had run the gamet of domestic junk from the time I was sixteen, the 49 Ford, 52 Chevy, etc, but this was my first european car. Mini's had already made their mark in club racing in the UK and the likes of the Monte Carlo Rally. I was now able to envision myself as a budding Paddy Hopkirk. Life was now starting to look a little brighter.

My education was as complete as my parents would allow and I was off and running in the world of survival. Over the years I worked for a number of architects and engineers, advancing my education in night school and the school of hard knocks. I owned/operated my own wholesale/retail photographic supply company for almost 20 years before my retirement. No complaints, a few regrets, but hey, work is work. If it were anything else it would be called 'fun'. Regardless, I was able to retire in 2001 and life has never looked better.

I have no intention of elaborating on my working life accomplishments and/or failures. It lends nothing to where I want this blog to end up. I want it to do two things; instill a slight insight into our family history, which I think I have accomplished, and get to where we are today.

150 Miles From Anything Remotely Related to Home

There must have been some ulterior motive for our move to this godforsaken, black fly and mosquito infested wilderness. If there was, I was never privy to it, save to get our lives back and escape from my aunt and two cousins. The plan, there always must be a plan, was that Dad was going to start a summer camp on the north end of The lake of Bays. I guess that seemed logical. He had 100 acres of land, water close by, and, his son went to camp for two weeks. That sure sounded like the winning ingredients for a camp. Well, he thought so but the bank didn't. So, what does a man do with no real job skills, 150 miles from civilization? The balance of what was left of the summer was pretty lonely but Dad made sure I was effectively amussed. The purchase of a Cooey 22 rifle put every living thing at risk of extinction and the acquisition of a 14 ft cedar strip boat with a 10hp motor meant nothing on the lake was safe.

School, when it started, was a joyous affair....back to two rooms, four grades per room. My social skills once more needed to be modified to survive in this new environment. In Dwight it wasn't cool to be cool and everybody had to take a poke at the 'punk' city slicker. By now my skills of self defense, both verbal and physical had become honed to a blunt edge and I decided to fight rather than switch. Fighting, even if winning can be just as lonely as being the outsider so it was time for another attitude check. I was reluctantly befriended by a neighbor kid and eventually fell into the correct social mode.

I learned all the neat things that kids in the far north do....canoeing, fishing, smoking, drinking and all that good stuff. I even got proficient enough, that years later I was able to take off into Agonquin Park for four weeks without adult supervision. It was a high school graduation thing and a bunch of us decided to spend sometime next to nature. The trip would have been more of a success if the beer canoe hadn't capsized the second day.

I completed my elementary school education in Dwight. By the time I graduated they had built a new four room school with most of the modern conveniences, particulary, running water. High school meant a 13 mile treck by bus into Huntsville everyday, at least everyday that I went. I had ambitions of being a graphic artist and when it came time to choose my options it was either french or drafting. I chose drafting as I thought perspective and rendering would give me a leg up in the art world.

Dad had abandoned any ideas of a summer camp and had just about expended the family fortune by the following summer so it was off to the big city of Toronto to find work, which he did. For the rest of our tenure in Dwight Dad spent his time working in Toronto and came home every 2nd weekend. Mother couldn't drive but Dad thought it best to leave the car home for any emergency and would take the bus to Toronto. Mother soon got fed up with being housebound, so by the ripe old age of 13 1/2 I was assigned driver duties and had full use of the family auto, a 1949 Packard. I was doing OK too until I almost ran over my girlfriends father. Ah, he never liked me anyway. He threatened to lower the boom on my driving escapades unless I restricted my self to driving ONLY when my mother was with me.

Claire suffered the most by our exposure to The Great White North. There was no neighbour kids for her to play with, hell, there wasn't even any neighbours to speak of. She had a mad passion for horses, although she had never really been exposed to them, and rode her faithful steed 'Topper' at every opportunity. Claire was an ardent rider and could wear a broomstick handle to a nub in the course of a few weeks. In the summer, her friend Tracy Hickock would take her for walks on the real thing.

Tracy was a summer resident from Rochester NY, heir to the Hickock Leather fortune. Theirs was a rambling summer estate consisting of 5 or more cottages and a main lodge, each one larger than our house.

I actually came to like life in Dwight and certainly my social life was improving with the onslaught of high school. Cars were still relevant in my life but it was hard to imagine a '49' Packard as a sleek European sports car. Nonetheless it provided me with something to hone my driving skills. Trees, bushes and any animal within 10 feet of the roads needed to be very afraid. Fortunately the old Packard was more tank than car and usually whatever it ran up against came out second best. The 13 mile trip on old Highway 60 from Dwight to Huntsville was a killer of cars, it ate them alive. The older teens, with or without licenses would try and do the trip in under 13 minutes. Very few succeeded but the old Packard made it in 12 minutes 15 seconds. We ate some bushes along the way but made it in one piece. The OPP were not very amused and were waiting for me at Hillside on the way back.

Injun Joe's and the Tradin Post were the big tourists attractions in Dwight. Many a summers night were spent outside with Injun Joe (who wasn't even an indian) listening to his tall tales.

Dad and Uncle Syd, resplendent in Indian head gear

As usually turned out to be the case, just when life got reasonably good, it was time to pick up and leave again

By the fall of '58' Mom got pretty tired of the lifestyle and wanted to return to civilization, so return we did.

The saga continues.

A small footnote of consequence.: In 1957 I did get to see my friend Bill again. At 12 years of age Bill had enough of home life and ran away. He showed up on our doorstep two days later, having absolutely no idea where we lived. To this day it is hard to know how he found us. Needless to say, he was promptly returned home by my parents.

I Started Life as a Child (Bill Cosby)

By 1955 the economy in Ontario, nay Canada, had gone into the dumper. Building came to a standstill in Pickering and the King Bros. were left standing with their p***ers in their hands. They tried their best to hang on but all hope was lost.

The family was now growing by leaps and bounds. My aunt, mother of my sister, and my two cousins came to Canada in late '55' and the nest was now more than a little cozy. To me it seemed like a lifetime since we left England, but in fact it was only five years, and I soon picked up the relationship with my cousins. Claire (my sister) was still no more than a toddler and was oblivious to the relationships surrounding her. Barbara (my aunt) did not want Claire to know she was her biological mother and so the secret was kept.

By early '56' gloom and doom reigned supreme. Avro folded the Arrow, the country was in some form of economic crisis, but worst of all, my friend John was off to California. Businesses were closing, the King Bros. included, and the property sold. We were now off on a new adventure to Scarborough. With the proceeds from the Pickering property, we moved to a new house in Scarborough and my uncle and his new found bride were off to experience the joys of apartment living. Oh, did I forget to mention that Syds wife could not stand life in Canada, packed up her stuff and went back to England in 1951. Barbara and my cousins Anne and Susan came with us and we were now in an even more cozy nest.

At Scarborough Golf Club Public School I was further behind than when we first left Scarborough for Pickering in 1952. I was lost...life was hell and James Dean died in his Porsche. My Grade 7 teacher was the son of a friend of my Dad's so you can imagine there was not much I could get away with. I guess I was a country geek having been removed from city life years before. Not only was I behind in school but definitely in the social skills required to survive in the city. Shades of grade one all over again. I was befriended by one individual, Bill Mclachlin. To this day Bill and I are friends and get together two or three days a week. It is easy as he only lives a stones throw away.

Dad had turned to Real Estate and he was successful enough to keep the wolves from the door, so much so, that I was whisked off to camp in the summer of '56' with my new found friend, Bill.

Two glorious weeks at Arrowhead Ranch in Collingwood. Horses, archery, shooting, hiking, camping and GIRLS!!!!!!! I guess by now I would have been pushing the ripe old age of 12 and the hormones were just starting to stir. Post Office, Truth or Dare and other fun games were played late into the evening in some isolated area of the camp. Alas it ended all too soon but provided experiences and memories that would last a long, long time. At the end of our stay, Mom and Dad came to pick me up, as did Bill's parents. Our parting gesture was to say "see you at home". We pulled out of the camp together,Bill's parents went one way, us another. Strange as we lived only doors apart in Scarborough. Did I say Scarborough....no chance. I was unceremoniously advised that we no longer lived were we used to live. In the two weeks I was away my parents had bought a property, and moved, to the small town of Dwight, some 13 miles east of Huntsville. I was not to see any of my school friends for a long time. Not only that, but I never even got to say goodbye.

Next...A new life begins in The Great White North.

The Saga of a Small English Schoolboy in Canada continues

Oh yes......My Dad and uncle worked together on the assembly line at Massey-Harris. A far cry from the plans they had to become bush pilots in northern Ontario. After the first winter in the 'cottage', they decided it was time for some modern conveniences and tried their hand at digging a well. Shitting outside in the 'Thunderbox', as the outhouse was affectionately referred to had become a bit of a bore. Time for indoor plumbing. Their first objective was to dig a well, their first obstacle was how to keep the sides from caving in. They discovered well tile and also the fact they couldn't afford to buy them in quantity. They found a manufacture that was willing to part with an old mold, learned to mix concrete and made their own. Thus, in an apple orchard in Guildwood was born "King Bros" Well Tile. By 1951 they were able to move their operation to an old barn in Highland Creek Ontario. The property owned by Cecil Wretham was to become their manufacturing home until late 1952. We had now moved from the cottage to an old farm house on Kingston Rd., owned by said owner of the Guild Inn. During our stay there, Dad and Syd bought a manufacturing facility in Pickering, once owned by Art Mitchell. The facility was located on the north east corner of Altona Rd and the 2nd Concession. They built a house there in 1952 and once again the Kings picked up their meager belongings, and moved to Pickering. This is where my life took a turn that I would continue to follow to this day.


A slight aside before I continue. I remember my childhood in quite vivid detail and it seemed to have lasted an eternity. As I write this and try to get the time lines correct, I realise just how short it was. I guess it is true what hey say about aging. To a six year old, one year is a sixth of his life, to a sixty year old, one sixtieth. No wonder time flies as you get older.


Cherrywood Public Schoolhttp://cherrywoodon.blogspot.com/ was a two room school built around the turn of the century (the one before this one). I entered in mid grade three and even though coming from the big city, was way behind in arithmetic. Yep...those were the days of the 3 'Rs', readin, ritin and rithmetic. A bottle of pop was $0.09 at Morrish's store, and if you returned the bottle you got two cents back. I was given $0.10 a day and had to return home with the correct change or $0.01 and the pop bottle. Every now and then desperation for a jaw breaker would take over and I would spend a nickel to phone home and ask if I could spend the change (Mr Morrish leant me the nickel and Dad had to pay him back). Eventually that whole coveted dime became mine.



Miss Rupert, Mr Lowen and Mrs. Wilkinson were my teachers for grades 3 to part way through grade 7.


The King Bros. operation grew and they ended up manufacturing well tile, concrete blocks, concrete patio stones (with the left over concrete from the days pourings) and also got into lumber and hardware supplies. Life was grand, except for that two and a half mile walk to school everyday. I guess my Dad took some pity on me as by the time I was 9 I was driving myself to school (with Dad's company of course) in our 1949 Ford F47 half ton pick-up. I had learned to drive in our gravel pit and every chance I got, I was out driving in the 'pit'. I had imagined a small course which I practised getting around as quickly as possible. My best friend (sorry Andy) was John Meyers (and here is where my life took that all important turn) and his Dad owned a 1954 Austin Healey 100/4. John had a highly advanced curiosity and between us we disassembled almost every piece of equipment his Dad owned that had an engine, and, in some cases we were able to get it back together without his Dad ever finding out. It was by my competitive nature that I should always try and stay one step ahead of John in our quest for knowledge of the internal combustion engine. John also had this outrageous thing with fire and flame throwers....but that is another story.

I thought John's dad's Austin healey was the most beautiful thing on the face of the planet, UNTIL.....I went to my first sportscar race in Canada, at Edenvale.

Once again I must digress. My first ever car race was at Silverstone in 1949. Stirling Moss made his debut in the 500cc class and I got to sit on the lap of Louis Cheron as his GP car was towed to the paddock at the end of the day.

I was hooked forever...sportscars and the smell of Castrol 'R'. John and his parents moved to California in 1956 and I haven't seen him since. I still miss him. I believe John's dad was one of the founding members of the British Empire Motor Club in Toronto. Through him I enjoyed many pleasurable moments at Edenvale, sitting on the haybales as cars went whizzing by and spending hours down at Rootes Motors in Scarborough for the start and finish of The Canadian Winter Rally. I have stepped from the beaten path a few times in my life and owned domestic cars but I always come back to my roots. Sometimes British, sometime German, once even Japanese (oops, twice), but never Italian or French.

In 1954 the family grows by one. My cousin Claire is sent from England to live with us and is consequently adopted. At the time we thought nothing of this arrangement but when she arrived at Toronto International Airport in the company of a BOAC stewardess there were scores of newspaper people there. Apparently she was the youngest (and still may be) person to ever cross the Atlantic on her own. Cynthia Arpthorp, from Middlesex was her companion on the flight and became an instant celebrity and had her 15 minutes of fame..

Who am I and what am I doing here?

So just what is a 63 year old doing creating a blog....beats the shit out of me.

I certainly don't think my life is interesting or appealing enough to be of any consequence to anyone. I guess it is just away to keep track of where I have been, what I am doing and what I hope to be doing in the future. At 63, if you don't write it down somewhere, you soon forget. I guess too, I would like to leave some sort of trail for my kids and grand kids. So much of our family history is lost because previous generations didn't pass on most of the relevant stuff.

That being said....where do I go from here?

Who Am I?
Colin King. Born in Birmingham England in 1944. Immigrated to Canada with my parents in 1950 to the then wilderness of Scarborough Ontario.

My father was John Raymond King, also born in Birmingham in 1913. He went to school until the ripe old age of 14, and then like most of his generation, started to make his way in the world. He had three brothers, two older, one younger. Norman, Victor and Sydney. Dad was an electrician, having served his apprenticeship while working on the Blackpool Illumination. He went on to Land Rover and during the war (WWII ) worked for Avro building Lancaster bombers. He tried to sign up with the RAF with his younger brother Syd, but because he was considered 'Essential Services' in the aircraft industry, was rejected. Instead he served in Birmingham as a volunteer fireman. Syd went on to fly Bristol Beaufighters out of Biggin Hill and then on to North Africa flying light bombers.



My mother was Francis Clara (aka Claire) Burgess, born in a suburb of Birmingham in 1910. I know very little of her background as a child and young adult. She had an older brother Phillip and a younger sister Barbara.








Early Childhood: We came to Canada more by fluke than by design. My family was all set to immigrate to Australia, but Syd had come to Canada 9 months prior and talked Dad into coming here instead of going there. We landed in Halifax on January 2nd 1950. We crossed the 'big pond' aboard the S.S. Aquitania on her last voyage before being decommissioned. From Halifax we took the train to Toronto. Our first home was The Guild of All Arts in what is now Guildwood Village. It was a great stone bungalow of some 6,000 square feet. How we ended up there is a story in itself and is too long to get into now. After 6 months the bubble burst and we moved, with my Uncle, his wife and daughter to what was the groundskeepers cottage for the Guild Inn. No heat save for a wood stove, no electricity and no running water. Three rooms with Kellog's cardboard boxes flattened out for wall board.

I started school at the ripe old age of 5. We didn't have Kindergarden and stuff like that back in 1950, at least not in Scarborough. My first school was Scarborough Village Public School. With my funny way of dress and British accent, I soon became the target of ridicule and a few bloody noses. I decided it was better to switch than fight so I soon lost my British accent and was in constant battle with my parents to 'dress like the other kids', jeans and PF Flyers etc. I guess in todays world I would have my parents demand my right to be different, have the kids charged with assault based on racial discrimination and drag their parents off to court.

I spent my first two and a half grades at good old SS#7 before we moved to Pickering. So, here the story ends until I get around to the continuation